Until the End of Days
by misscam
Summary: Dead ship in dead water, nothing where Valinor should be – merely a nightmare, or is something terribly, terribly wrong?
1. Dreams and Echoes

Until the End of Days  
By Camilla Sandman  
  
Disclaimer: *bows*. The characters, the world of Middle-earth – all Tolkien's. Forgive me, Oh Great One, I am writing for joy, not profit.   
  
Author's Note: I have a feeling this will be a big project.. Help! How many parts it will be is at the present time unknown...   
  
Timeline: After book three   
  
Part One: Dreams and Echoes  
  
~~~~~  
  
_ Fog surrounded him like a thick blanket of wool. There was nothing to see but grey; a greyness that moved as the wind swept through. The wind was wet, carrying tiny drops of water with it. Salt water; the sea was near.   
  
It dawned on him that he had been there before. Where the realisation came from, he did not know. But the feeling of recognition was unquestionable. The images were familiar, like he was reliving a past memory.  
  
The fog shifted again, beginning to pull away. He peered forward with his keen eyes as the sea came into view.   
  
It was dead calm. No waves, there was not even a ripple. There were no sounds but the wind, a wind that seemed to wail in his ear.  
  
There was a ship out on the sea, sailing towards him with growing speed. In his mind he had seen that kind of ship often enough, for it carried most of the beauty of Middle-earth with it.  
  
The Ringbearers. The Three. The ship that was sailing towards him in the calm water was from the Havens; he would know it even if thousand years had passed since he had last seen the kind.   
  
But the ship seemed empty.   
  
It sailed like a ghost ship, no trace of life. Dead ship in dead water. The ship seemed to stare up at him, and then it slowly turned. Westwards, where the Blessed Realm resided in undiminished beauty.   
  
Westwards, where the fog was thinning and becoming small wisps. And with a drift of wind they were gone, leaving only the distant horizon. No signs of land, nothing even faintly green in sight.  
  
Westwards he moved now, with the ship, as if he was light enough to be carried with the wind.  
  
How far was it to Valinor?  
  
A strange, disturbing notion came over him. He was looking at where Valinor had been. It was gone.  
  
No. He shook his head, hair flowing freely in the wind. It could not be. It was further west, beyond the horizon, further…  
  
_ Panting, Legolas bolted upwards, and nearly hit his head on the hard cave ceiling. The height was more than sufficient for a dwarf, but for an elf it was a constant danger of a splitting headache.  
  
Legolas did not pause to consider yet again the implausibility of an elf staying in a dwarven hall, his mind elsewhere.  
  
The dream. It had come again. Sleep had taken him even though he had had no need for it and brought the same dream. Five times he'd had it now, each time more vivid.  
  
Carefully getting up, Legolas exited the small room. Flickering torchlight guided him through the quiet halls. He got a nod from a dwarf here and there as he passed, moving upwards. How they could thrive cut off from sky and trees was beyond the elf, but they seemed happy. And despite that many glances were sent in his and Gimli's direction, none of the dwarves had commented on a wood elf living with them.  
  
Cold air greeted him, and he stepped out into the night. Distant sounds of nightlife reached his air, taking away some of the unease of the dream. The stars were twinkling as merrily as always, the moon was bright and there was nothing sinister in the air.   
  
A beautiful night. At times like this Middle-earth hardly seemed changed. It was as beautiful as ever, echoes of songs past lingering in the air. It made him feel young again, listening to the nocturne of Middle-earth.  
  
For a while he just stood there, drinking in the sound and smells. He thought he could feel a faint smell of moss and dew of Mirkwood, but it was probably just wishful thinking. He wondered if he truly missed the great forest, or rather his own relative innocence.   
  
So much had happened since he had left his home. The Quest, seeing the Golden Wood and the Lady countless battles, the fall of Sauron, the departure of the Ringbearers, Gimli…  
  
So many tales come to an end. Westwards waited Valinor…  
  
The memory of the dream came over him again. Who would know what it meant? Lord Elrond or Lady Galadriel surely, but they had passed into the West. His father? Perhaps, but Legolas felt a slight reluctance to share this with the King of Mirkwood.   
  
Soft footsteps alerted him to another presence near, and he instantly knew who it was. He did not turn, merely waiting until his friend had reached him.  
  
"Gimli," he said softly.  
  
"I know you don't have to sleep like a dwarf, but can you at least pretend?" the Dwarf complained, looking like he had just risen from bed. Someone had to have woken him, perhaps a dwarf that had spotted Legolas wander the halls. Despite no ill words at all, there were times the Elf wondered if any of the dwarves save Gimli truly trusted him.  
  
"I dreamt again."  
  
Gimli's face instantly lost the look of grumpiness and became one of worry.   
  
"It is always the same, Gimli. A dead ship in a dead sea, and a feeling that Valinor is gone. I fear it is speaking to me, but I cannot fully hear what it is trying to say."  
  
"What could be wrong?" the Dwarf argued. "Sauron is fallen, for surely he cannot threaten Middle-earth without the One."  
  
Staring into the distance, Legolas did not instantly reply. An owl hooted far away, a fox padded through the grass. Gimli kept wisely silent, knowing his friend.   
  
The Blessed Realm had been almost a curse for dwarves for a long time, used to argue that elves did not belong in Middle-earth. The faster they all sailed over the sea, the better. But now Gimli felt a distinct sadness whenever he heard the name spoken.   
  
Valinor. Valinor had taken many of his friends, and would eventually take his best friend from him also. Legolas would cross the sea and Middle-earth would have little to offer. Gold and high stone halls piled with jewels and mithril seemed so little in comparison.   
  
"I fear for Valinor. But why? Why would I fear for Valinor? Great powers protect it."   
  
Gimli did not know what to reply and merely kept his stare on the sky. An image suddenly came to him; an image that would cause any dwarf to be struck by fear. The Balrog of Moria, Durin's bane. An ancient demon far beyond the power of a mere dwarf. An echo of what had been.  
  
"Terrible powers have been too," he muttered, causing Legolas to look down at him.   
  
The wind seemed to stand still, as both thought of a name neither dared utter. A shadow far darker than Sauron, but now it was but a whisper almost forgotten. Fouler and greater than Sauron - Morgoth the Ancient Enemy.   
  
Legolas felt his mind wander westwards against his will, pondering the images of the dream. Valinor could not vanish surely, but could it be concealed?   
  
"No." Legolas shook his head and forced the thought away. "Darkness has been banished. Tell me more of this place where your kind lives, Gimli, and ease my ill mood."  
  
And as the Dwarf chatted lively about mining and carving of great halls, Legolas listened only partly. It was comforting to hear his friend's gruff voice among the night sounds. It was almost enough to wash away all of dream; a night song that seemed to speak to his heart.   
  
They remained under the stars, quietly chatting the night away. And by morning the dream felt faint and unimportant.  
  
Until the messengers came with the sunrise  
  



	2. Lost

Until the End of Days  
By Camilla Sandman  
  
Disclaimer: *bows*. The characters, the world of Middle-earth – all Tolkien's. Forgive me, Oh Great One, I am writing for joy, not profit.   
  
Author's Note: I have a feeling this will be a big project.. Help! How many parts it will be is at the present time unknown...   
  
Part Two: Lost  
  
It had sailed into the Havens as a ghost ship, empty, weathered and with an air of abandonment. The elves who were there felt a sudden sense of unexplained dread watching it drift into view from the thick fog.   
  
The grey fog seemed to stick to it though, the sail taking on a dull grey colour. The waters darkened around it, shrouding it in a veil of fog and darkness. For a moment the elves dared hope it was but a vision, an image from nightmares and not real.   
  
But the ship remained drifting, and when the fog lifted they all saw it.   
  
The dead ship.  
  
And dark whispers began to spread, whispers that spoke of vanished elves and a vengeful sea. Something was wrong, the whispers said. Something dark awaited westwards.   
  
But not even in whispers dared anyone utter the greatest fear of all.   
  
Far and wide the whispers went; to peaceful Shire, to Rohan, to Minas Tirith and Mirkwood, even to Lóthlorien. Was the ship an ill omen, a bringer of doom? For what could possibly threaten the Blessed Realm? To the elves Valinor was their haven, where they would live until the end of days.   
  
To humans the name was bittersweet, a reminder of what they could not have. Theirs was to pass beyond the veil, to die from the world. But the whispers of the dead ship filled even Men with fear. For Valinor was a name out of legends, legends of far greater things than Middle-earth.  
  
And the dead ship brought a fell wind with it, rushing through the trees and grass, an insistent wind. It did not die as winds should, but lurked in Mirkwood and carried the quiet sobs throughout the forest. It lingered over Minas Tirith and caressed the White Tree, which shivered in its wake. All the way to the dwarven homes of Gimli's kind did the wind travel eventually, just as another morning was about to take hold.  
  
The wind swept past Legolas, and the Elf felt a cold grip on his heart. It lasted only a moment, but it had a strange feel of familiarity to it.  
  
Lifting his glance from the sky, Legolas noticed the approaching horses. Dust were kicking up as they galloped, at times almost masking the horses from view. There were two riders, clearly heading their way.  
  
The horses were riding hard, their riders obviously in great haste. Legolas recognised one as Galadhbar, one of his father's trusted friends. The other was unfamiliar, dressed in dark grey. Elves.  
  
"Friends of yours?" Gimli asked.  
  
"They are from Mirkwood," Legolas said quietly, feeling a stab to his heart. He knew why they had come and he dreaded the words. The longing for the sea grew in his mind, locking out the tiny murmur of unrest.   
  
The two stood silent as the horses approached, just as the sun cleared the horizon and began to climb the morning sky. A few clouds drifted lazily across the sky, white against the dark blue. The stars were fading from view, leaving the sun to rule supreme.   
  
Galadhbar was first to leap of his horse, looking strangely pained.  
  
"Legolas. I bear news of your father," he began, bowing his head.  
  
"Speak," Legolas replied, his tone much more commanding than Gimli could ever recall hearing before. It occurred to the Dwarf he never thought much of his friend as the Elven Prince of Mirkwood, just as Legolas.  
  
"Your father set for the Havens, Legolas, and begun the journey over the sea."  
  
Legolas did not look surprised, Gimli noted. There was merely a tiny look or resignation in the Elf's eyes.   
  
"His ship came back to the Havens. There were no signs of life," Galadhbar added, his voice hoarse.   
  
For a moment Legolas staggered. "The dream," he muttered, dazed.   
  
_Dead ship in dead water._  
  
The image came to him as clear as a mountain lake, forever etched into his mind. The ship in the water, looking at him so intently. Had it been trying to say something?  
  
"Legolas," Galadhbar said intently. "Will you return to Mirkwood?"  
  
Legolas felt Gimli's eyes on him as well as the elves's, all wondering what he would do. He could not think, for his mind was filled with images of Thranduil, father and King. In a sense his father had been Mirkwood, and Mirkwood had been him.  
  
"I.." Legolas began, but realised he did not know what to say. His heart was pounding loudly in his mind, it was all he could hear. "I must think."  
  
And with that he turned and fled, leaving Gimli to deal with the two elves. He fought the tears until he could no longer feel his legs for the pain in his chest and hear nothing but his own heartbeats. He fell to his knees, staring out over the land.  
  
His father was lost.  
  
The sunlight seemed cruel and had no warmth as his tears fell to the ground. Westwards, the sea glimmered treacherously.   
  
~~~~~  
  
The day passed, as all days eventually do, the sky blackening and stars reappearing as brightly as ever. The moon rose, its white face greeting the nightlife.  
  
It did not surprise the Dwarf to find Legolas quietly sitting by a brook in the faint moonlight, leaning his head on his knees. It pained Gimli to see his friend this way, but there was little he could offer but company.   
  
The starry sky was the same as the other night, yet it seemed that the stars were twinkling sadly to Gimli. Perhaps they were mourning, or perhaps he had been spending too much time with his elven friend and was seeing things.  
  
Legolas looked up for a brief second, face as pale as the moon and eyes as dark as the sky. The light in his eyes seemed quenched, dead and dull.   
  
"If you wish to return to Mirkwood, I will come with you," the Dwarf declared, putting a hand on Legolas's shoulder. The Elf remained silent, staring westwards.   
  
They stood like that for a while, almost like the night before. Middle-earth was the same, but the perspective had changed. Now the silent beauty seemed sinister, foreboding. It was as if all beauty had gathered in Middle-earth because it could no longer gather elsewhere.   
  
"Perhaps the ship reached its destination," Gimli offered after a while, but even his voice sounded doubtful.   
  
"No."  
  
The word was uttered quietly, but the ramifications were anything but. What secrets were the sea guarding? Drowned elves or something far more sinister?  
  
"I must go to the Havens," Legolas said, his voice still soft and quiet. He looked to his dwarven friend, knowing what the reply would be.  
  
"We must go," Gimli corrected. "I could use a bit of sea air."  
  
Something that could have been a chuckle escaped Legolas's lips, only there was a distinct sadness to it. The reply was what he had expected, stubborn and quite dwarfish. Yet he was glad to hear it, for it was a long trip alone with such a heavy heart.   
  
He glanced westwards again, dreading what answers awaited there. For if the dream was an omen, it was not just his father that was lost – Valinor was lost.  
  
And if that were so, the elves were lost forever.  
  



	3. Tales under the Moonlight

Until the End of Days  
By Camilla Sandman  
  
Disclaimer: *bows*. The characters, the world of Middle-earth – all Tolkien's. Forgive me, Oh Great One, I am writing for joy, not profit.   
  
Author's Note: I have a feeling this will be a big project.. Help! How many parts it will be is at the present time unknown...   
  
Part Three: Tales under the Moonlight  
  
The moon hung low, just barely clearing the mountains. The light it gave out was faint, bathing the world in pale silver. The stars helped as much as they could, their old light still as strong.  
  
Gimli and Legolas were sitting by a small mountain top, sheltered from the wind. Gimli's eyes were closed as he listened to Legolas's soft song in Elvish. The words meant little to the Dwarf, but the song itself carried infinite sadness.   
  
The small fire the Dwarf had started crackled, a strange backdrop to an Elvish song of lament. Up here it seemed so silent, so free and open. The air was fresh, though cool, and the stars sparkled in the streams and brooks.  
  
He had definitely been spending too much time with the Elf, Gimli decided. Next he would probably start carrying a bow instead of an axe and start reciting poetry about the beauty of stars and trees.   
  
The song ended on a long high note, fading into the wind. Legolas fell silent, lost in memories of the past and Gimli had not the heart to trouble the Elf with his questions.  
  
For questions were burning on the Dwarf's lips, and one above all.  
  
Were not Elves Immortal?   
  
Legolas looked down at him and Gimli realised he had to have spoken the question out loud.  
  
"Immortal? We do not die, Gimli. Our bodies can be slain or broken, but then the spirit rests in the Hall of Mandos in Valinor until it is allowed to resume form again. My father…" Legolas's voice faltered, and he closed his eyes.  
  
"But if Valinor is gone, your father would be truly lost," Gimli finished.  
  
"My heart is heavy. There is a feeling of change around me, and something fell is in the air westwards. A tale from my younger days is echoing in my mind…"  
  
"A tale?"  
  
"Dagor Dagorath," the Elf said, staring into the flames distantly. "The end of days. It is but a whisper among my people. The eldest speak not of it, for it involves our greatest fear."   
  
"Sauron?"  
  
"No. Sauron was the enemy of all free people of Middle-earth, but he was only a minor power compared to Morgoth – the Ancient Enemy of the Elves."  
  
The name was nearly spitted out, and a pained expression flashed over Legolas's face. It occurred to Gimli that though Morgoth was a name of fear and pain among his people also, it carried no personal vengeance. Not so for the elves. Even Legolas, who was born long after Morgoth's fall, seemed to feel it concerned him personally.   
  
"I wish Mithrandir were here," Legolas said after a while. "I dearly miss him, Gimli. Those were dark days, but with his wisdom the world was clearer. He would know what is happening."  
  
"Gandalf," Gimli said softly. "We could have used a wizard."  
  
A thought occurred to him suddenly, a memory of Gandalf telling a tale at the Council of Elrond and a name he had mentioned. Radagast the Brown – another wizard.   
  
"Legolas, did Radagast pass over the sea with Gandalf?"  
  
The Elf looked confused for a moment, merely staring. Then he laughed, a small and sad laugh, but a laugh nevertheless.   
  
"Alas, you have a fool of a friend! Never let it be said a Dwarf cannot think brighter than an Elf. Radagast resides near Mirkwood, Galadhbar would know if he has been seen of late. I shall ask him in the morning."   
  
Gimli settled back against the rock, his keen eyes regarding the Elf. There was something Legolas had not spoken of, something that worried his elven friend. The Dwarf furrowed his forehead, wondering. Whatever it was, Gimli decided he would have to keep an eye out. Legolas was his friend, but he was an Elf, and Elves had secrets in their blood.  
  
Secrets, starlight and tales. Sometimes Gimli wondered if the elves were made of that rather than flesh and blood.  
  
"And long Eärendil set sail into the starless vast, Elwing at his side, the Silmaril upon his brow, voyaging the Dark behind the world, a glimmering and fugitive star. And ever and anon he returns and shines behind the courses of the Sun and Moon above the ramparts of the Gods, brighter than all other stars, the mariner of the sky, keeping watch against Morgoth upon the confines of the world," he cited, making Legolas look up in surprise.   
  
"I do listen to your tales, Legolas, even when you think I have fallen asleep. You told me of the Silmarillions and Earendel when we rested in Fangorn. If you did not think I listened, why did you tell it? Do Elves love the sound of their own voices that much?"  
  
"I do recall hearing snoring at some point during that tale," Legolas replied, and stared hard at his friend. After a few seconds he broke into a smile, and was soon joined by Gimli.   
  
The smiles faded as Legolas stared up at the sky, and Gimli threw more wood onto the smouldering fire.  
  
"Not all share the Elvish love of tales, Legolas, but we too have tales. They concern mostly mines and underground beauty, I will not bore you with them. Though we may not concern ourselves much of the worries of the world, we are aware of them. And Morgoth brought Durin's bane, and forever will we resent him for that. Moria was our greatest stronghold, our pride – now it is but a tomb."   
  
"Morgoth brought pain to many. Perhaps we elves forget that at times. We see our own loss, and only ours," Legolas replied, sounding pensive. "It is said he is trapped beyond the world until Dagor Dagorath. But something is not right. I feel it in the air. This should be the time of Men – and we shall slowly fade and pass into the West. There we shall await the end of days. So says the tales."  
  
Legolas fell silent, sadness overcoming him again. His father should not be lost – yet, his heart was grieving. There was something terribly wrong, and finding out could very well lead him to where his friend could not follow – over the sea, to see if Valinor was truly gone.   
  
A part of him did not wish to take that way. It would mean leaving Gimli, and their farewell would be final. The Dwarves were not immortal…   
  
But if Valinor was gone, neither were the elves. Legolas shuddered, despite the warmth from the fireplace. For the first time he realised what the Doom of Men had to be like – not knowing what awaited. What if there was nothing, only darkness forever?  
  
Not seeing his father ever again seemed like pain too heavy to carry. And what of his mother? How did Men and Dwarves endure the uncertainty of their fate and those they loved? No tales offered any answers. Perhaps Elves took too much comfort in tales.  
  
And yet it was only one thing he could think of to wash away the dread and grief he was feeling.  
  
"Tell me a tale, Gimli. Of mines and underground beauty. You will not bore me."   
  
Author's Notes: Radagast is mentioned in the book-version of the council of Elrond. The concept of Dagor Dagorath is mentioned in _Unfinished Tales. _More details on Morgoth and the elves's struggle can be found in _The Silmarillion _and _Unfinished Tales. _  
  



	4. Black Wood

Until the End of Days  
By Camilla Sandman  
  
Disclaimer: *bows*. The characters, the world of Middle-earth – all Tolkien's. Forgive me, Oh Great One, I am writing for joy, not profit.   
  
Author's Note: I have a feeling this will be a big project.. Help! How many parts it will be is at the present time unknown...   
  
Part Four: Black wood  
  
The wind came from the west, carrying heavy clouds with it. Clouds clad in black and heavy with rain, shielding the sun from view. Soon, the clouds let go of their burdens and rain fell.  
  
The rain was thick, a wall of water. It pounded upon the ground almost like hail, hard and unforgiving. All living things sought sanctuary from the rage of the rain; under trees, rocks or anything that would serve as shelter.   
  
The rain drowned out all other sounds, even the howling wind. Even the slow clip-clop of hooves and soft curses in dwarfish were drowned, only audible as the riders were upon you.  
  
But nevertheless, they were there. Huddling forward, an Elf, a Dwarf and a horse were moving through the rain, as wet as if they had taken a dive into the sea. But still they rode onwards, determined. Their destination was Mirkwood, where Galadhbar had said the wizard Radagast had last been seen.   
  
The skies wept on, grieving for things Men had long since forgotten and Elves barely remembered. The skies were never empty…  
  
There was an awareness there. A being of former greatness, now foul and evil. It had been great once, but it had sought power and power had corrupted it. Forever would it hate things fair, a reminder of what it had been. A black heart made for a black spirit. And it was aware and awake, watching and reaching…  
  
And the skies wept.  
  
The trees lifted their branches, soaking in what they could. It had been long since it had rained last, and their thirst was great. The wind lifted the water from their leaves again, carrying it always further. Eventually the water would be returned to the sky again, the eternal circle of life.   
  
As suddenly as the rain had come, it was gone again. The clouds cleared, the sun reclaimed the sky and began drying the wet land. The wind helped as best it could, growing in speed and strength.  
  
And with the wind came a shadow, soaring high over the land until it reached the great forest of Mirkwood. A test of power, it was, an attempt to once more alter the world.   
  
The shadow moved among the trees, slipping from tree to tree as silent as snow falling on snow. As it moved, it seemed to gain shape, become substantial. It was hunting, unblinking eyes always looking forward, never looking backwards.   
  
The spiders fled from it, for they felt its malice in the air. Birds stayed away, leaving only faint cries as warning. A strange silence fell, and even the wind waited.  
  
Ever forward the being crept, until it could feel the presence of the spirit it was seeking and it charged. A great fireball swept forward, claiming trees and grass alike. Fire was met with fire, a blaze seen even far, far away.  
  
Legolas and Gimli saw it, as they were riding through the mud some leagues away. Gimli was complaining about the rain and how wet he was as the forest in the distance exploded in flames. The horse neighed wildly, rearing up and nearly throwing Gimli off.   
  
The Dwarf let out a cry in his own tongue, but Legolas did not listen as he fought to regain control of the horse. It was frightened, and not just at the sudden fire. There was something else the horse felt as well, something that filled it with terror.   
  
The fire seemed to have died out as suddenly as it had appeared, leaving smouldering remains and a foul stench in the air.  
  
A strange silence fell, only broken by the wind sweeping by. For a moment Legolas was sure he saw a shape in the wind, a shadow, but it was gone within a heartbeat.  
  
"The forest is silent," Legolas said, his glance on the treetops of Mirkwood. Behind him, Gimli muttered and felt the handle of his axe, making sure it was near.  
  
"That was wizard fire," Gimli said, his voice grim. It had been too sudden, too violent to be anything but.  
  
Legolas did not reply, merely charged the horse forward, galloping towards the thin smoke that were beginning to rise.   
  
As they drew nearer, the forest rose ahead of them like a mighty wall of green. There seemed no end to the trees, and Gimli clutched on harder, not particularly keen to fall off. It was a small comfort to know he was with an Elf – where the elf began and the forest ended could be hard to tell at times.   
  
Legolas rode the horse among the trees as if he had done nothing else in his life, which might not be far from the truth, Gimli reasoned. This was Legolas's home, as foreign to the Dwarf as the mines had to be to Legolas.   
  
As they got further and further in, something bothered even the Dwarf – there was no life, no sounds but the horse. Forests should not be this silent, even dwarves knew that. There should be birds and animals, some searching for food, some hunting.  
  
How long they rode, Gimli was unsure, for it was hard to see ahead and harder still to look behind. But suddenly the green made way for black. Black trees, black ground, a crater among the mighty trees. A sudden heat met them, and for a moment it seemed painful to breathe.   
  
The ground was still smoking as Legolas dismounted, stepping on the ground with such light footsteps the ground merely sighed as he walked across.   
  
A few trees had fallen, a few seemed to have become just ash, covering the ground like snow. Grey and black snow. Some ash were still twirling about in the air, rising in the warm air.  
  
Legolas bent down, pushing away some ash and pulled out a blackened branch. It took a moment before Gimli realised it was no mere branch – it was the blackened remains of a staff. A wizard's staff.   
  
"A wizard dies hard," Gimli muttered, staring at the destruction. "What did this?"  
  
"Nothing of this world," Legolas replied, looking up at the sky. The wind had died, almost as if it considered its job done. More ill omens. For though a wizard's form could be slain, they did not die easily. And there were no body. Perhaps it had been burned. Perhaps…   
  
He stared at the blackened wood in his hand and a cold chill moved down his spine.   
  
There were two possibilities. Either this was the work of a new evil – or that of an old evil. An ancient evil.   
  
Morgoth. This was not the work of Sauron, for Sauron's power had been in the One Ring. This was something fouler, something darker. Even Sauron would not have dared attacking Valinor.   
  
Morgoth…Shadows and dreams. Were they signs of Dagor Dagorath?   
  
"We have questions and no answers, and no orcs necks to cleave to get them," Gimli complained, clutching his axe. "Where shall we ride, Legolas?"  
  
Legolas's face was blank, revealing nothing of the turmoil the Elf felt. He reached out to touch a tree, closing his eyes as he did. Mirkwood was calling to him, calling for him to come home. But he could not.   
  
What could a fairly young elf and a dwarf could do, he had no idea. But if the end of days had come, there was nowhere to hide. Not even in Mirkwood, the great greenforest.  
  
And his greatest grief he did not mention to Gimli. For he could not feel his father's presence in Mirkwood, as he always had.   
  
It was gone.   
  



	5. A Tale Untold

Until the End of Days  
By Camilla Sandman  
  
Disclaimer: *bows*. The characters, the world of Middle-earth – all Tolkien's. Forgive me, Oh Great One, I am writing for joy, not profit.   
  
Author's Note: I have a feeling this will be a big project.. Help! How many parts it will be is at the present time unknown...   
  
Part Five: A Tale Untold  
  
It is not true that the past is merely things passed. There is no end without a beginning. And though the beginning may be forgotten, it always comes into play at the end. So are tales constructed, for all desire closure.   
  
No one could pinpoint exactly when it began, or why it began. An ill mood was spreading over Minas Tirith, although no one could say what was wrong. But nevertheless, the sense of something wrong was there, insistent.   
  
And fear filled the people. Many looked to Mordor, half expecting Sauron to have risen again, for surely that would explain the fell wind. But Mordor was quiet, and the darkness did not move.   
  
Few looked to the sky, but those who did could not shake the feeling of dread. For there was a sense of a hand reaching down, a hand reaching from beyond the stars to touch Middle-earth. The sky seemed so major, the world so minor.  
  
And word spread that Queen Arwen was sick, for she had been seen pale and staggering in the hallways, and none had since seen her. It was said she was resting, but from what no one would say – and the rumours begun to circle among the people.   
  
"Foul is the wind, ill are the omens and hard times are coming," they would say. "Even the Eveningstar pales."  
  
And many looked to the gates, hoping their King would return soon, but he was north and were not to ride home for a while yet. And in her bed Arwen tossed, nightmares claiming her night after night, even during the day.   
  
She dreamt of an awakening far more terrible than Sauron and the fall of Valinor. Again and again sleep came to her, though she did not desire it. And in her mind a darkness seem to linger though the days were bright and sunny  
  
A shadow rested in her mind, speaking of the death of all elves. She did not wish to listen, but it spoke anyway and she was no longer sure if it was only in her dreams.   
  
Sometimes she thought she heard her father in her dreams, calling out to her in desperation; and she would turn to face him, but he was always gone. Only his scent would linger in the air, and she would breathe it in and know she had lost him.   
  
She briefly wondered if her choice to become mortal was creating such a longing in her that she could be going mad, but she did not feel any loss of sanity.   
  
She felt fear, and it seemed to her a great peril was upon them.   
  
High above the city the wind arose and went eastwards, where dark beings slept or hid. For though Sauron was gone, his legacy remained. Divided and leaderless they heard the call, and they answered.   
  
But elsewhere in Middle-earth, shrouded in the darkness, rested a being of old. So deeply asleep was she that most thought her dead, so dark was she no light was about her. Long she had slept now, in a cloud of shadow. Her name was but a whisper of old among the elves and Men no longer heard her name.  
  
Ungoliant she had been called, the great spider of old, a name out of legends and nightmares.   
  
A nightmare born again, for the call woke her from her deep sleep. A sleep not even Sauron could have disturbed, if he had indeed believed she still lived. But she knew this call, the call of the Blackheart, and the anger of old had not faded. With him she had destroyed the Two Trees of Valinor, devouring their light. But Morgoth had denied her the price she had requested, and she felt the betrayal still. Great were her rage, but even greater were her hunger.   
  
Forward she crept, darkness around her as ever. The earth trembled as she strode forwards, and many fled before her. Out of the mountains she came, and begun her search for food and revenge.   
  
And west of Mirkwood, a shadow felt her presence. Its spirit was old, and though it had no longer the shape of it had served Morgoth with, it still remember. A Balrog it had been, mighty and feared above all other servants of Morgoth. But even Balrogs could feel fear, and the shadow hesitated.  
  
Finally, it took to the wind, flying high above the land. To the mountains it went, until the enemies of old met again. For the spirit had been among those who had saved Morgoth from Ungoliant's webs when the Silmarils had been denied her.   
  
Dark was the sky as the shadow took the shape of a Balrog once more. Many saw fire in the sky that night, but none would never know the story behind it. For no tale came of the meeting of the two evils of old. None lived to tell the tale, expect the mountains and sky, and they did not speak any language in which tales were told.   
  
Diminished was Ungoliant's shape, but she was still the greatest spider of all and her darkness had not faded with time. Forward she charged and the Balrog lashed out with its great whip, and their battle begun. Fire lit the sky, and foul winds seemed to arise and swept through Middle-earth. Long the battle raged, while the sun rose twice and descended again.   
  
But at last Ungoliant spun a web so strong the Balrog could not flee, and it changed its shape back to a shadow. And Ungoliat laughed, for darkness was her servant, and within a heartbeat she breathed in the darkness and swallowed the shadow.   
  
Thus the Balrog perished and could not follow its masters call for death and destruction. And though no one would know, Middle-earth had escaped a great peril.  
  
As for Ungoliant, she relished in her victory and her great cries of triumph echoed in the empty valley. But her hunger was great still, and there seemed to be nothing to eat. Strength began to flee from her, and in desperation she ate the only thing she could think of.   
  
So great was her hunger that she devoured herself, leaving only a cloud of darkness that would forever be deadly to all those who breathed it in.   
  
And so ended one of the most terrible creatures to ever walk the world, evil destroying evil with only the sky and mountains as witness. Perhaps it was a fitting end a creature of so many tales - to have none speak of her demise.  
  
But though a great peril was no more, a greater peril still awaited.   
  
  
Author's Note: Ungoliant and the destruction of the trees are mentioned in the Silmarillion. If you haven't already read it, you should ;)   
  



	6. The Door Is Open

Until the End of Days  
By Camilla Sandman  
  
Disclaimer: *bows*. The characters, the world of Middle-earth – all Tolkien's. Forgive me, Oh Great One, I am writing for joy, not profit.   
  
Author's Note: I have a feeling this will be a big project.. Help! How many parts it will be is at the present time unknown...   
  
Part Six: The Door Is Open  
  
Winter was coming, though it was not yet the season for it. Cold winds came from the north and the west, freezing flowers to death. Snow fell in the north, covering the still green grass. Trees had to fell their leaves or die.   
  
Lakes froze, and the sea became a cold grave for all those who dared sail out. Even the moon seemed pale, and the sun hardly showed its face. Those who could sought the indoors and hardly ventured out.   
  
But for some there was no choice. Gimli and Legolas were seeking the Havens, and no foul weather could keep them from journeying onwards.   
  
Legolas was mostly silent but Gimli sometimes awoke in the night of songs of lament. They seemed to blend in with the weather strangely – songs of cold hearts in a cold world. Sometimes the Dwarf thought he might understand them, for they were not only in the language of Elvish. They were in the language of the heart, and all beings had the capacity to understand that  
  
But what worried him most was a line of poetry that seemed to echo in his mind over and over. He was not sure if he had invented it or was remembering it, or perhaps heard it in a whisper somewhere.  
  
_ There are wind-ages, wolf-ages, Ere the world falls dead_  
  
Wind-ages and wolf-ages. He thought sometimes he heard wolves howling in the wind, but he never saw any. Legolas paid no heed, or perhaps he did notice and did not say. It was impossible to break through the shield Legolas had erected for now, but the Dwarf was determined to see it shatter eventually.   
  
But for now he let the Elf grieve in his own way and tried not to freeze to death.  
  
Each day seemed the same. Trotting or riding through snow until night fell, then seeking cover for the night freeze. Onwards and onwards, through the pass and into the valleys where the wind died down a bit.  
  
The snow began to fall thicker, silencing the world. It was a strange mood about, as if time itself had frozen. Nothing seemed to move, nothing seemed to happen.   
  
They passed by the empty Rivendell, cold and covered in snow. It seemed to greater distress Legolas, and Gimli felt a bang of sadness also. He could not explain it, but seeing the wind sweep through the empty halls nearly brought tears to his eyes.  
  
They continued along the road, meeting few other travellers. The few that were out spoke in worried voices about orcs and a great wolf that had been spotted. Ill omens, they called them.   
  
The two companions reached Bree just as a winter storm came from the west, assaulting the town. It seemed unusually cold and harsh, sweeping through clothes and wood alike to fasten its cold grip.   
  
The Prancing Pony still stood, and they took lodging there. But even in Barliman's tavern there seemed an ill mood about that not even ale could cure. Not for the lack of trying though.  
  
Seeking a quiet corner, the Dwarf and the Elf sat down, listening to the wind and the low whispers. A few sent curious glances their way – an elf and a dwarf travelling together was an uncommon sight.   
  
They sat quietly for a while, when suddenly a familiar voice called out.  
  
"Gimli! Legolas!"  
  
"Bless me, it's Sam," Gimli said astonished.  
  
Indeed it was. Clutching a pint of ale was Samwise Gamgee, looking a fair bit older from the last time Gimli had seen the hobbit. His face seemed less innocent, and more hardened.   
  
"I did not expect to see you two here," the hobbit said, looking somewhat guarded. Legolas realised the hobbit already knew why they had come.  
  
"What brings you here?"  
  
"The Havens," replied Legolas.   
  
Outside, the wind picked up, rushing through the town and into the wild. Through the trees and past the pack of wolves waiting by the hilltop it went. Wolves, yet not wolves, for they had not been born as wolves. And the pack leader was greater than any wolf, as tall as a horse and fur as dark as the night.   
  
Wolf-ages.  
  
Night fell. Sinking down on the bed, Legolas stared up at the ceiling. The meeting with Sam had not comforted him, for the hobbit had confirmed his fears. There was something seriously wrong at the Havens – Sam had spoken of wolves hunting and elves missing.   
  
The wind shrieked, shrieked like a dying.. a dying..  
  
_ A dying elf.  
  
The shriek died away as Legolas found himself on a great cliff overlooking the stormy sea.  
  
There was blood in the water. Rusty red spilling into blue. Legolas stared as more blood fell into the water, fell from the sky.  
  
"The door is open," said a voice in his ear, and Legolas spun around to face his father. White as death he was, sea weed in his hair.  
  
"Father!" Legolas exclaimed, reaching out to touch Thranduil's hand. It was cold and wet and he could not help but shudder.   
  
"My son. My beloved son. You must understand. You must see."  
  
"See what?"  
  
"The sky." And with that Thranduil lifted his hand, pointing upwards. "The door is open. He can reach out and touch the world once more, and soon he shall escape. The end of the world draws near, Legolas, but it should not be. This is not the time."  
  
"What happened?"   
  
His father seemed to deteriorate before his eyes, flesh falling from his bones, bones becoming ash and the wind swept the ash from the ground.  
  
"Father!" Legolas cried out, reaching out and only catching a handful of ash.   
  
"The door is open!" the wind cried. "The door is open!"  
  
_Panting, Legolas awoke. Unasked for, tears began to stream down his face. He did not hinder them, letting out all his grief and fear in silent sobs.   
  
To his surprise, he suddenly felt a gentle hand on his shoulder, and looked up to find it was Sam, not Gimli.   
  
"Take me to the Havens," the hobbit pleaded. "I need to know Master Frodo is well."  
  
"I will, Sam. And I hope he is." The words were lightly spoken, but there were no hope in them. For Legolas remembered the tale his father had told him long ago.  
  
'Morgoth shall come back through the Door out of the Timeless Night,' his father had said, then laughed it away as though the time would never come.  
  
But the door was open now.   
  
  
  
Author's Note: 'Wolf-ages, wind-ages, Ere the world falls dead' is from Norse mythology and the tale of Ragnarok, end of the world. 


	7. Dark Sun

Until the End of Days  
By Camilla Sandman  
  
Disclaimer: *bows*. The characters, the world of Middle-earth – all Tolkien's. Forgive me, Oh Great One, I am writing for joy, not profit.   
  
Author's Note: I have a feeling this will be a big project.. Help! How many parts it will be is at the present time unknown...   
  
Part Seven: Dark Sun  
  
_ I fear my dreams. In my dreams I remember it all – every face, every kill, every drop of blood to stain the ground. Night after night I relive it, pain and agony and death. The war was not pleasant, and it cost the elves more deeply than even we will acknowledge.   
  
I long for peace. I have searched for it in Middle-earth, but it is not here. What peace we had in Lothlórien and Rivendell is gone. And Mirkwood will have no peace without my father. My dreams remember these places, and I grieve.  
  
Yet I fear the day the dreams will vanish even more. For then I will forget. And all those who died will mean nothing.  
  
And I will feel nothing and become nothing. Becoming nothing… For Valinor may be lost, and what are we without it?  
  
I pray my father has found peace, that his spirit is not lost, but merely rests in the cold waters of the sea. I have no hope, but I pray. I do not even know if the Valar can hear prayers any more, yet still I pray.   
  
I do not know what else to do.   
  
_****  
  
There was no comfort in the sun. As bright as it was, it was still dark. Its beams carried no warmth, and the world was freezing. Just the sea remained unfrozen, but as cold as ice nevertheless.  
  
Legolas stared out over the sea, drops of water whipping his skin. His clothes were already wet, but he cared not.   
  
Here it was, what he had longed for – for so long it felt as if the longing had been born the second he had been. Yet the sight had no joy now, only terror and fear. Somewhere out there, among the cold waves, rested an answer. An answer he did not really wish to find.  
  
The Havens had offered no answers. All the elves knew was that the ship that had left had returned empty, and no messages had come from Valinor. And they all spoke of a silent shadow waiting in the skies.  
  
The ship Legolas had planned to sail was ready, supplies had been brought, but the elf felt less ready than ever. It was a journey he would have to take alone, Sam and Gimli could not come. Valinor was not for them. They were mortal, they did not truly understand the sorrow immortality would bring.   
  
"Dîn dae," he said quietly. There was indeed a silent shadow lingering over them all.  
  
"Have ye decided what to do yet?" Gimli asked, appearing by his side. "The elves here have had little to tell that we did not already suspect."  
  
"I fear the path, Gimli," Legolas replied, avoiding the question as much as he could.   
  
"The path to Valinor? Nay, say nothing my friend, I see the path in your eyes. You mean to sail over the sea, to search for Valinor. You have meant to do this since we saw the dark shape in your forest."  
  
Legolas bowed his head.  
  
"I may not have your keen eyes, Legolas, but I see what is in plain sight. Sam knows your plans also. He plans to come along."  
  
"He cannot. Nor can you, Gimli."  
  
The dwarf said nothing, but the frown on his face spoke clearly enough. He would have to leave tonight, Legolas realised, lest the dwarf and the hobbit would stay with him like shadows.   
  
"I shall go see what Sam is doing," Gimli finally said. "This discussion is not over though, Legolas."  
  
Legolas watched his friend walk away, heart aching.   
  
"Farewell, Gimli, son of Glóin," he whispered, and lifted his head. It was time to leave, even though he did not feel ready.  
  
Middle-earth had no peace, but it was still his home. And it was still beautiful under the dark sun, the wind howling at his ears.   
  
Howling…  
  
He had reached for his bow and fastened an arrow without even thinking as the wolf came at him. As dark as the shadows, it gave out no sound as the arrow pierced its skin. White teeth gleamed, snapping at the elf.  
  
Legolas dodged, but the wolf was quick, biting into his arm. Even as it did, Legolas had knife in his other hand, and it slid into the wolf as effortlessly as sliding into butter.   
  
The wolf fell dead, torn cloth in its mouth.   
  
"Draug!" came a cry, as the elves scrambled. Legolas wasted no time caring for his wound, chasing down the hill and to he ships. Arrows whizzed through the air seeking their prey, and blood began to stain the ground. More blood, always more blood.   
  
Gimli and Sam were not to be seen anywhere, but Legolas felt confident they could handle themselves. Silently, he crept forward, searching out his small ship.   
  
The wolves were falling quickly, no match for elven bows and swords. But in the fighting, no one looked at the small ship setting sail. No one paid attention to the golden arrows felling the biggest wolf of all - the farewell of Legolas.  
  
When the fighting was over, the ship was already far out at sea, the winds giving it good speed.  
  
Sinking down in the boat, Legolas clutched his bow. Middle-earth was fading into the fog, becoming grey and dull.   
  
"Namarië," he said softly.  
  
"Elves and your dramatic sentiments," a gruff voice coming from the biggest bundle muttered.  
  
"Gimli!" the Elf exclaimed, as the bundle stood and revealed itself to indeed be Gimli. "What are you doing here?"  
  
"Felt like a day out on the sea," the Dwarf replied, meeting Legolas's hard stare. "You are a bigger fool than I took you for if you think I would let you go alone."  
  
"I am a fool? Gimli, this is not your…"  
  
"This is not mine what? The fate of the world concerns us all, does it not? And even if the threat was merely for the elves, I would still come. For you, and for Lady Galadriel. You are my friend, Legolas, and I will not let you do this alone. Sam was coming as well…"  
  
"Sam!"  
  
"Let me finish, you fool elf. Sam was coming, but when he fell asleep I carried him off the boat. I have been waiting for you to make this move – Did you think all that wandering in caves had made me blind?"  
  
They stared at each other, a contest of will. It was Legolas who finally looked away, shaking his head lightly.   
  
"Your stubbornness may cost us both, Gimli, but I cannot help the joy in my heart at having you here. So be it. Whatever awaits us, we will face it together."  
  
"That is more like it," Gimli replied. "Say, you did not bring any pipe weed, did you?"  
  
"I did," Sam said bravely, peeking up from a smaller bundle.  
  
"Sam!"  
  
"Begging your pardon, Master Gimli, but knew you would try to get me off the boat," Sam replied. He met the stares defiantly. "I only pretended to sleep, and went back when you slain the wolf."  
  
"I have been fooled by a hobbit," Gimli muttered. "I should have known – You take after Frodo, my dear hobbit. Give me some pipe weed and perhaps I will forgive you."  
  
Smiling, Sam handed the dwarf a pouch.   
  
The sun was perhaps dark, but it occurred suddenly to Legolas that he was basking in light. The light of souls so bright no darkness could dull it.   
  



	8. The Storm Comes

Until the End of Days  
By Camilla Sandman  
  
Disclaimer: *bows*. The characters, the world of Middle-earth – all Tolkien's. Forgive me, Oh Great One, I am writing for joy, not profit.   
  
Author's Note: I have a feeling this will be a big project.. Help! How many parts it will be is at the present time unknown...   
  
Part Eight: The Storm Comes  
  
_ Once, Shire was the world. I dreamt of what was beyond it, but they were safe dreams, for I never thought they would come true.   
  
Then darkness came as a glimmer of gold, and I followed Mister Frodo into a fairer and darker world than I could ever have imagined. Elves and orcs, towers and forests – I saw much and the more I saw, the more I longed for home.  
  
I came home and the Shire was the world enough for me.   
  
But Frodo needs me. I hear him in my sleep, a whisper I cannot understand but for one thing. He calls my name, again and again.. So I have left the Shire again, stumbling into matters I do not fully understand. There is weed in the garden so to speak and Legolas and Gimli are going to pull it out if they can, that much I know.   
  
I see their grim faces and I know they feel fear. Not a sudden panic, but deep, rooted fear. It clings to their souls, like mould to a tree. Something isn't right. There is foulness in the air, as the Gaffer would say. The sky is not right. Not even Shire will be a shelter when the storm comes.   
  
I feel it, much like Frodo felt the Ring in his mind I think. The storm is brewing.   
  
_ *****  
  
Two days. Two days of wretched sailing had he endured now.   
  
Sam clung to the side of the boat, his whole stomach desiring to be emptied out in the sea. Waves licked at the boat, as if they were taking a taste before swallowing them all. The water seemed dark to him, bottomless and cold, almost shadowy. A lonely grave, it would be.  
  
Rain and seawater had long since soaked him and he could hardly remember what dry felt like. Nor the sun, for dark clouds seemed to have swallowed it, if it indeed did rise anymore. The coldness or the air made him think it had not.   
  
The boat cut through the waves under the skilful mastering of Legolas even in the bad conditions. There was little solace in that though, for the Elf was steering them into the unknown. Even Legolas did not know the exact path and the stars were not visible to guide him.   
  
"Fear not Sam, Legolas will get us there," Gimli said comforting as he noticed the state of the hobbit. The Dwarf sounded less than sure though – not that he doubted Legolas; Sam did not think Gimli would ever doubt Legolas nowadays. But none of them knew exactly where 'there' was.   
  
"I have not seen this dark a sky since Sauron shrouded it in darkness," Legolas suddenly said, his eyes on the horizon.   
  
"Frodo defeated Sauron," Sam said through clattering teeth. It warmed him for a moment – the joy on Frodo's face as the burden had been lifted from him was enough to light a fire in his heart. All the hardship had been worth it for that shining moment.   
  
"Sauron was the servant," Legolas replied, his thoughts clearly travelling dark paths. The Elf seemed untouchable, wrapped in his own grief; much like Frodo had been after the Ring had been destroyed. A nightmare that could not be shared, not truly.   
  
"The servant often repeats the follies of the master," Gimli said calmly. "And an Elf who worries too much may drive the boat crushing against rocks, Master Legolas."  
  
The two exchanged a look that seemed quite fond despite all. So different in appearance and manner they were still of the same kind; filled with the light of stars, shining for all those who cared to see. Like Frodo.   
  
"If you think so little of my boating skills, why are you not steering this boat?" Legolas countered, and though his expression did not change, a glimmer of humour flashed in his eyes. It was almost enough to remind Sam of the days of the Fellowship; though great darkness had been, great light had been too.   
  
"Because Elven boats were no made for dwarves, my friend. I am not…"  
  
What more Gimli was about to say Sam did not know, for at that moment a giant wave came at the boat and cold water showered them all as the world moved. Sam squeezed shut his eyes, hoping against all hope that that would make the weather improve.   
  
Legolas cursed softly in Elvish (or at least Sam thought the Elf cursed, he did not recognise the words) as the boat rolled. The sea seemed to grow only more hostile as time passed, as if it resented their progress. Or wanted to prevent it.   
  
'Saaaaaam…'  
  
The hobbit nearly fell over, snapping his eyes open and looking around wildly. It sounded like Frodo calling out in pain!  
  
Gimli and Legolas made no signs of having heard it, both busy keeping the boat afloat. Gimli was empting water back into the sea as best he could, his grimness returned.  
  
'Saaaaaaaaaam...'  
  
The voice came again, seeming to come from the water itself, the shadowy water below him. His hair stood on edge as the voice rolled over him, gripping his spine. A voice out of nightmares.  
  
Only he was awake and there was no warm tea to pour away the feeling of dread. No warm pillow to hide under until morning came, no Rosie to draw comfort from.   
  
'Saaaaaaam, help meeeee…'  
  
The waters reached for him and to his great horror he found he was leaning over the side, stretching out towards the sea. He could not remember having moved, but he must have. For a moment he thought he would fall, he could see his fall mirrored in the water. Then he regained his balance, tipping back into the boat with a small thud.   
  
"Sam?" Gimli paused his bucket filling, looking over at the hobbit.   
  
"I heard Frodo from my nightmare," Sam whispered. Even now the voice still seemed to echo in his mind as he looked at the dark waters. The nightmares gathered here. Something terrible had happened. This should be a place of joyful dreams and wonder as they drew nearer where Valinor was – or, where it ought to be.  
  
'Sam, Sam, Sam, Saaaaaaaaam...' the voice called again. It was a cry of terror and pain, calling for him. Frodo was in pain.   
  
"The waters surrounding Valinor are like no others," Legolas said quietly. "We may see and hear any strange things ere this journey comes to an end."   
  
"But first we must get through that storm," Gimli replied, pointing to the horizon. A wall of water seemed to be gathering there; so dark it nearly blended with the clouds. The rain whipped sideways over the water in the strong wind, soaking all that came in their path.   
  
A distant thunder rolled over the sky, a warning to turn back, to turn back now.   
  
"We will not," Sam muttered to himself. Frodo needed him. His gaze fell on the waters again and a strange thought occurred to him. What if it was the sea that was in pain, calling out in a voice it knew he would pay heed?  
  
"We will not," Legolas repeated, giving Sam a small nod. Not much escaped the ears and attention of the Elf.   
  
And they sailed on, into the storm and the sea of waking nightmares.   
  



	9. Cold Stars of the Future

Until the End of Days  
By Camilla Sandman  
  
Disclaimer: *bows*. The characters, the world of Middle-earth – all Tolkien's. Forgive me, Oh Great One, I am writing for joy, not profit.   
  
Author's Note: I have a feeling this will be a big project.. Help! How many parts it will be is at the present time unknown...   
  
Part Nine: Cold Stars of the Future  
  
The sea screamed, the sea roared, the sea crushed. He remembered tasting the bitter salt on his lips as the storm came down upon them. He remembered the first cries as the waves washed over them all, taking life away.   
  
He remembered his own cry but not what he cried for.   
  
And afterwards, it was so silent. He slept – or perhaps he passed out. Consciousness flickered, sometimes strong and sometimes nearly gone; much like a candle in strong wind. He tried to breathe, to only breathe and not feel pain.  
  
Afloat…  
  
He was floating. At first he wondered if he was flying, but he could not feel any wind against his face. He could hardly feel anything at all anymore. Not his hands, not his feet, not his head. It occurred to him he should be cold but he could not remember why.   
  
He could not remember anything, not even if he had forgotten by choice or if the memories had simply died before his body. His eyes stung as he stared upwards at the dark, dark sky. The stars had paled. He had paled. They were all but ghosts, forced to float until the end of days. Forgotten; cold; dead. All things eventually were.   
  
Even the elves.  
  
He was an Elf. Strange. Elves should not die like this yet he knew he was dying. He would freeze to death and the sea would be his grave. His only grave.   
  
Strange grave for a King.  
  
He was a King. He was not sure where the memory came from, nor if it was true. Somehow, it felt real. Others had called him King. There had been a forest; a great forest. Long he had lived and fought there until the sea had called.   
  
And now the sea had claimed him.   
  
He stared and stared as he floated quietly, unable to move, unable to feel. The stars had burned bright, he knew, but they were cold now. Cold as the future.  
  
'I am waiting to die,' he thought idly. There was no panic in the thought; he had not the strength and no one would hear him. They were all dead. Drowned. The ship – something had happened to the ship.   
  
Something had happened to the world. The cold stars stared down at him, almost speaking to him. A whisper of light, mixed with the waves of the sea.  
  
What was it the sea sang of? He could not hear it, but he could feel it. It was… The lullaby of the elves? The lullaby of the world?   
  
Morgoth.  
  
And though he felt numb, something cold still filled his body. Perhaps it was dread, his mind felt too heavy to consider it much. The name meant something; names always did. This name…  
  
This name meant death. True death.   
  
Morgoth had reached for the world and Valinor – Valinor was shrouded in darkness. They had… They had…Lost it.   
  
He fought against the mist in his mind, tempting him with rest and clouding his memory. He could not think; it hurt to think. But he knew… He knew he would die. He would truly die. Morgoth had trapped Valinor away and paled the stars. The Ancient Enemy was coming.   
  
Cold, cold stars. But as he looked at them he felt his eyes close and yet he still saw them. A strange starlight. He could not see it, only feel it. It… changed. He changed.   
  
He was afloat but it was not his body. Not his time. These were the cold stars of the future, shining down on the lifeless body of his son, afloat in the sea.   
  
Legolas. So beautiful, hair floating around his face and framing it like a crown. The prince – his prince. His son. Dying too. No. No, he could not see this. Why was he seeing this?  
  
Blindly, he reached with his thoughts and found that the starlight carried them. He felt Legolas now; the fatigue; the grief; the cold.   
  
_ Legolas…  
  
Father?  
  
You must wake up. You cannot die.  
  
I…I am dreaming again. You are dead. Father…   
  
Wake up!  
  
_ He could see the ship now too – the battered ship Legolas had been washed overboard from. It was coming closer; frantic voices called Legolas's name.   
  
"Legolas!"  
  
They were sailing the wrong way, away from his son.   
  
_ Legolas, my son, awaken! You must not die, you will die forever.   
  
I want to follow you. I heard your voice in the sea. I want to…  
  
No.   
  
_ Gathering all his strength, Thranduil forced his mind to feel the body of his son. He tried to move the arms, move the head, make him speak. He had to.  
  
"Help…"  
  
The word slipped out between pale-blue lips, barely audible, but the sea was calm and quiet and carried the sound.   
  
The ship changed course, coming closer. It was beaten and looking like it was on the verge of sinking, but it was above water and carrying the two onboard. Hands reached for Legolas's body, pulling the Elf up.  
  
"Legolas!" exclaimed the Dwarf, looking so grief-stricken it even pained Thranduil. Perhaps he had not understood dwarves as well as he had once thought. They cared for more than mining and gold and their kindred. This Dwarf cared for his son, reaching for Legolas's cold hand with his own trembling one.  
  
"Is he alive?" the halfling whispered.  
  
"Aye. Foolish Elf!" the Dwarf replied, but there was no anger in his voice. "Get the blankets. He is cold."  
  
Cold, but alive.   
  
Thranduil felt warmth return to his son's body as the boat changed course once more. Westwards again, through the now calm water. It had survived the storm. Thranduil's ship had not.  
  
Even as he thought it, the vision began to slip. The feeling of Legolas vanished and his own body returned – cold, numb and dying. No ship was here to rescue him. But he smiled up at the stars – always the friends of the elves, even in death.   
  
"Thank you," he whispered, though he did not know to whom. There was something in the sky; something as bright as Morgoth was dark. Perhaps there was hope. Perhaps he would only sleep until he washed ashore on Valinor's shores. Perhaps nothing was wrong with the world at all and the Halls of Mandos would welcome him.   
  
Somewhere at the back of his mind he knew that would not be, but he clung onto it. Just a nap until he was there. Valinor was still there. Just a nap… He was so tired and his body felt so distant. It would be good to rest.   
  
It was time to sleep now, in the waves, knowing his son lived still. The sea would not have Legolas. Sleep…  
  
He closed his eyes and under the same stars but a different time, Legolas opened his.   
  



	10. Arrows and Eyes

Until the End of Days  
By Camilla Sandman  
  
Disclaimer: *bows*. The characters, the world of Middle-earth – all Tolkien's. Forgive me, Oh Great One, I am writing for joy, not profit.   
  
Author's Note: Thanks to Jo for proofreading as always, and Morduial for a) research and b) my very evil, evil plotbunny that will now take over the direction of this story. This is will not get any lighter, folks.   
  
Part Ten: Arrows and Eyes   
  
Winds and waves mixed, sounding almost like wails of someone dying. A sound that carried silence with it, piercing the skin much like the cold winds and take hold. It was the wail of the world, so silent and yet so strong none could ignore it. It was as if the very earth was in pain, and the seas and mountains echoed it.   
  
Gimli shuddered and found himself once more wishing he had his pipe. The sea had claimed it – not that he could truly have used it, for the pipe weed was soaked and probably ruined. But it would have been comforting to hold such a mundane object, a reminder of peaceful times. Especially now, lost at sea and only sky and water in sight.   
  
The sea was quiet now, as if all fight had gone out of it. The storm had nearly claimed them all, tearing at the sail with claws of air. How the ship had not fallen apart, Gimli did not know. He could only surmise that though slender, it held the same strength as Elves. Like arrows – you would not think much of them until they slammed into your chest with a strength and speed unimaginable. The Elves were the weapons they favoured; quick and light and deadly when need be.   
  
The Dwarf stared down at his feverish Elven friend, colour having returned to Legolas's cheek. He was muttering in his own language, Gimli could only catch a few words.   
  
'Atar,' Legolas had muttered again and again, sometimes desperate and sometimes filled with such sadness it was almost too much to bear.   
  
What words could he, a mere Dwarf, offer in comfort to such great sadness? He stared down at his hands and felt them ball together. Anger filled him, but it was anger he did not know where to direct. He embraced the anger nevertheless, for behind it lurked fear.   
  
A Dwarf, a Hobbit and an Elf adrift on the sea, whatever good could that do? It was folly, yet so had sending a hobbit with the One Ring to Mordor been. Folly backed by wisdom. But wisdom had left Middle-earth. Lady Galadriel had left Middle-earth.   
  
Oh, but how he wished he could behold the Morningstar! Just a flicker of light in this darkening world and the fires of his heart would be rekindled. Fear would flee before the Lady of the Golden Wood. If she was no more…   
  
He shook his head slowly, shaking the snow out of his hair and beard.   
  
It fell into the boat, grey and flaky, some flakes grumbling into dust. It was not snow, he realised. It was ash. Ash was falling from the sky.  
  
From whence it came he did not know, but it filled his heart with cold dread. The wind could not have carried it all the way from the shores of Middle-earth. It came from elsewhere.   
  
He lifted his eyes to the horizon and saw the high flames licking against the sky. He nearly cried out, but the vision vanished as quickly as it had appeared. There was nothing darkness on the horizon, and the sky was impossible to tell from the water. All was dark and silent.  
  
Had Valinor burned there, or was his mind so set out to deprive him of hope it sent him visions of destruction?  
  
He shivered. Was this then the end of days, as poems and songs of old had spoken of? He scarcely remember them anymore, for they had been considered tales for children. It had not seemed possible days would ever end, for though the world was old, it was not yet ancient or tired.  
  
The air brushed his cheeks, gently at first, almost a caress. But the strength of it grew, lifting hairs and whipping water at him. Water drops trickled down his face much like tears; perhaps they were. For a moment he closed his eyes.  
  
"Child of Aulë…"  
  
The voice was a mere whisper, but his eyes snapped open.   
  
There was a dark shape on the nearest wave, tall and majestic against the sea. Mists hung around it much like a cloak, shrouding the long hair that fell as foam. A crown was upon his brow, shining with a dark silver glow. And in the stern eyes a wisdom shone as bright as any star. All seemed to pause in reverence.  
  
And Gimli bowed his head, for he knew he beheld the Dweller of the Deep; Ulmo, Lord of Waters.  
  
"Child of Aulë," Ulmo said again, his voice deep and filled with the strength of the merciless sea. "Why art thou here?"  
  
"I came with Legolas, Lord," Gimli replied, head still bowed and mouth dry. He could hear Sam stir and the boat rocked slightly in the still water. His own heart pounded fiercely in his chest and drowned nearly all other sounds.   
  
"Turn back," Ulmo commanded. The mists swirled and fell away. "Naught can be found here but death. The souls of Elves pass to the Halls of Mandos no more. Twilight has come and the night beacons the world."  
  
Gimli more felt than heard Legolas rise and he shot a glance at the Elf from the corner of his eye. Though pale and shivering, his friend looked aware and awake.   
  
"What has happened, Lord?" Legolas asked quietly, reverence in his voice.   
  
"Melkor."  
  
The name echoed between the sky and the sea, growing in strength until it roared and the sear roared and the wind roared… When it died, the waves answered.   
  
As if the name had been a call, the sea rose violently, shaped as an arrow of dark blue. Ulmo lifted a shimmering weapon to meet the attack, but if he spoke the words drowned in the raor of the sea. The arrow of water came at him, but water fell away and revealed what seemed like a snake's hides. Straight it was, glimmering dark green and blue and two giant specs of black at the front.   
  
Eyes.   
  
And the voice of his father echoed in Gimli's mind, recalling the rise of a great evil. Naglfar, the dragon of water, father of sea-bound monsters. The sea had swallowed him when the world was young and was said to hold him trapped in the watery depths. But when the end of days came, so would Naglfar. Just a tale, scaring young Dwarves by the roaring fires. Just a tale…  
  
_Dark waters rise,  
the mundane snake is coiled  
The worm beats the water,  
and the eagle screams:  
the pale of beak tears carcases;  
Naglfar is loosed._  
  
Yet the arrow had eyes.   
  



	11. Blood and Ashes

Until the End of Days  
By Camilla Sandman  
  
Disclaimer: *bows*. The characters, the world of Middle-earth – all Tolkien's. Forgive me, Oh Great One, I am writing for joy, not profit.   
  
Author's Note: When I said it won't get any lighter, I meant it. Angst o'hoy. If you want fluffy bunnies, head elsewhere.   
  
Part Eleven: Blood and Ashes   
  
The dragon hissed, the water groaned, the wind shrieked and the clouds rumbled overhead, as if they cheered or perhaps wept. Who controlled the sky now? Did the Ancient Enemy linger above, touching the world once more?  
  
Legolas trembled as he tried to reach for his bow, but he nearly fell over and Gimli held out a supporting arm. The Dwarf never took his eyes of the battle ahead though, nor did Sam, the hobbit wide-eyed and pale.  
  
_ What is wrong with me?  
  
_ The thought cut into his heart and he winced in pain.   
  
_ I am ill.  
  
I cannot be. I am an Elf.  
  
_ And even as he thought it, a treacherous voice whispered in his mind._ Are you truly Elven anymore?_  
  
The world screamed. The sea-serpent lifted its head and echoed it, its tail slicing through the waves. It was almost as if the scream had words in it – words as old as the sea and as powerful as the waves.  
  
"The words of Melkor hold no sway here!" Ulmo called, his voice carried over the hisses. "Thou art in my realm. Flee, or perish!"  
  
The dragon did not answer, or if it did, it was not with words. Metal met flesh, water met blood. The dragon's body encircled its prey and it hissed in triumph.   
  
"The dragon of water!" Gimli muttered. "Alas, the Elven ship…"  
  
"The dragon did not attack it," Legolas replied. He felt hot and cold at once as memories that were not his filled his mind. It had not been the dragon. His father knew. It had been… A shadow on the wind. Dragons could be slain. But how did you fight a shadow?  
  
The arrow sprung from the bow with a low hiss. He did not even realise he had taken it until it was in his hands and he had fired twice.   
  
One arrow merely pricked the skin of the dragon and fell into the sea. The other embedded itself near the eye and creature hissed and turned its head.   
  
Dark eyes regarded Legolas and a flicker of recognition burned in the depths.  
  
"Firsssstborn," the dragon hissed. "Mortal now, Firstborn. You are naught but a shadow. I will eat your flesh and feast on your soul."  
  
But as it spit the words at Legolas, another voice echoed.  
  
"Nay."  
  
The Lord of Waters was not so easily defeated. Even as the dragon turned its head once more to find in encircled only water, the sword descended upon it. Flesh parted before its sharp edges, and the dragon wailed as blood spilt into the waters.   
  
"By the blood of Melkor-born spilt, part the mists!" Ulmo cried out. For a moment, silence reigned. The very sea held its breath.  
  
Then the mists parted, darkness fell away and Valinor was before them.   
  
Legolas dimly heard Sam's gasp and Gimli's exclaim of wonder. His heart pounded in his ears. Valinor. For a moment he saw it as his whole kindred had, bright and wonderful and singing to him.   
  
Valinor. The Blessed Realm.   
  
A wave picked up the ship, steering it towards the shore. Only then did Legolas realise something was horridly wrong. Smoke rose here and there, a mountain seemed split in two, a black crack ran through the isle and the light seemed to battle a growing shadow.   
  
The mists closed behind them and the sea and its Lord vanished from view. One last hiss from the dragon rang in Legolas's ears as all sounds muffled and died away. The sky vanished from view. A dark cloud was all around them, shielding Valinor from the world… or did it shield the world from Valinor?  
  
The boat slid onto the shore with a gasp and fell silent. There were no other sounds, no winds, no birdsong, no merry laughter. No stars, no moon, no sun. No sky. No sign of life and no sounds from the world. It was as if they were removed from it altogether, trapped away. A timeless night shrouded Valinor.  
  
"I can't see the stars," Sam muttered. "What is this?"  
  
"Foul craft of Morgoth," Gimli replied, grasping his axe. He looked up at Legolas, eyes troubled. "Is this…?"  
  
"Yes," Legolas whispered and stepped onto the shore. He could feel hot tears on his face, but he was powerless to stop them. Valinor. "This was Valinor. It burned."   
  
He bent down and grasped sand and ash in his hand. It prickled against his skin, still hot or maybe he only imagined it.   
  
"It burned," he repeated quietly. He could hardly see through his tears, blinking them away fiercely. Pain assaulted him mercilessly, stab by stab until he wished only to fall onto the ground and sleep. So much lost… So much pain… Perhaps mortals were blessed after all. Pain ended when death came.  
  
"I know," Gimli replied, and Legolas met his eyes to see an echo of the same grief and pain. "I know. I saw Moria dead and burned. Legolas…"  
  
The Dwarf lifted a hand as if he meant to brush the tears away from Legolas's face, but let the hand fall a moment later.   
  
"What of… Those who live here?" Sam whispered.   
  
"I do not know," Legolas replied. He sank down on the sand, unable to support his own weight anymore. He felt Gimli's hand on his shoulder only distantly, as if it was no longer his body and he was floating high above. The pain dulled slightly as numbness set in.  
  
_ I should not have come. Oh, father… At least you died in ignorance. I should not have come. There was still hope then. Why did not Ulmo let us all drown? Alas for the world. Valinor is in ashes. We are dying.   
  
_ "They live," Gimli said stubbornly. "Not all is dead."  
  
The Dwarf lifted a hand and pointed to the ground nearby. A batch of green grass was there, though surrounded by burnt ground.   
  
"I know Mister Frodo lives," Sam said bravely. He held up Sting, and it glittered weakly. "I still have his sword."  
  
"You are right, Sam. Frodo is not dead," the Dwarf replied, an edge of steel entering his voice. "Nor is Lady Galadriel. Come on. A battle needs all the warriors it can have."  
  
From where Gimli sought his courage, Legolas had no idea. Perhaps Dwarves had worked with steel and rock so long it had become a part of them. Steel did not bend, and rock endured even the toughest storms.   
  
"Come on, Legolas," Gimli said softly. "We cannot sit here in the sand until the end of days."  
  
The Elf rose slowly, despair heavy upon his shoulders, wanting to pin him down to the earth, to become one with the ashes. He felt numb still, but the pain came anew as he looked up to see distant smoke once more.   
  
"This is the end of days," he whispered and as he walked, the sand and ash fell from his hand onto the burnt ground.   
  



	12. Dirge for the Dead

Until the End of Days  
By Camilla Sandman  
  
Disclaimer: *bows*. The characters, the world of Middle-earth – all Tolkien's. Forgive me, Oh Great One, I am writing for joy, not profit.   
  
Author's Note: When I said it won't get any lighter, I meant it. Angst o'hoy. If you want fluffy bunnies, head elsewhere.   
  
Part Twelve: Dirge for the Dead   
  
They came from the sky.  
  
Silent they fell, white and cold, wrapping the earth in their deadly embrace. Snow. Snow was no longer falling only in the north, but came with the winds. Cold settled in Greenwood the Great, for so long known as Mirkwood and still thought of as such, and froze elves and animals alike. Trees died, while others stood defiant and leafless against the sky, clinging onto life with all their strength. Green became white, and white became soiled by blood.  
  
Orcs crept out from the dark places of Middle-earth, hearing a call in the wind.  
  
Animals that did not heed Morgoth's call sought shelter, trying to find warmth where they could. Men too, sought the refuge of their houses, huddling by the fire and telling themselves it was only the wind.   
  
Only the wind…  
  
And with the wind came the dragons.  
  
Rivendell, empty but for the echoes of wailing winds, burned brightly in the twilight, set ablaze by foul forces. Wolves came to Bree and even the Shire, and whispers of a wolf-age spread through the land.  
  
Wolf-ages, wind-ages.  
  
North of Gondor, a band of wolves fell upon the company of King Elessar, and Narsil was wielded once more in the chill moonlight. But the wolves feared not the sharp edges of the King's sword, for they were driven by a greater terror.  
  
And when the last wolf of the pack fell, the terror came.  
  
They came from the sky.  
  
Even the blood of Númenor could burn. Ashes to ashes, blood to earth. Ice and fire. A terrible fight and terrible silence. One fallen King in the blackened snow, crowned by the shattered pieces of his sword. Once more the sword was broken. It would not be reforged this time; there were no heirs of Isildur to lift it.  
  
Aragorn, son of Arathorn, King Elessar, husband to Queen Arwen – was dying in the whiteness.   
  
Snow fell onto his face, frozen tears of the sky. The winds wailed, and black against the grey sky a great form hovered. Pained, Aragorn lifted his eyes to the winged horror that had crushed his body. For a moment, it was all he saw.   
  
And then, incredibly, the evening star shone down at him through the dragon, a single shimmer of light. Just for a moment. One moment, one breath.   
  
No more pain. Only a veil passing over his eyes, over his senses and then nothing. Blessed nothing but for the star.   
  
The dragon saw the light die in the Man's eyes, saw the broken bodies below, saw the death-grins still shining with terror, and let out a terrible cry. Far away, another joined in. And another.  
  
The sky answered. There were no words, only a single note of music. Foul it was, but an echo of something once fair still rung in it. This was Morgoth's music. It had gripped Middle-earth once, and the land remembered. The mountains shook. The rivers stilled. The trees withered. Orodruin awoke with a great sprout of fire and ash. Shadows descended upon the towns and villages.  
  
Middle-earth was under attack.   
  
In Minas Tirith Arwen awoke from a dream and knew her husband had fallen. It was not a vision, simply a feeling of a light having gone out somewhere inside her. She knew and suddenly the price of mortal love fell on her shoulder and weighed her down. A claw clutched her heart and she heaved for air.   
  
For days now she had feared for Valinor, strange dreams besetting her. They spoke of many things, but most of all death. Death to those who should not die. Death to the elves.   
  
The city was awake, though it was not near dawn. Distantly, she heard cries and the distinct cackle of flames. Fires. And in the air, a foul note of music seemed to linger. An echo – of drums and horns and magnificence. A magnificence of darkness, but magnificence none the less.   
  
She knew that music. All elves did, even though few remained that had heard it before.  
  
Morgoth.   
  
Her legs nearly failed her as she struggled to untangle herself from the sheets. They clung to her like seaweed, wanting to pull her down and drown her in dark dreams. Dreams of her father becoming dust before her very eyes, scattered over an empty sea.  
  
The floor was cold and the wind ripped into her skin. For a moment she felt as if all the pain would stop her heart right there and then – but incredibly it kept beating. So frail was mortal life. The heart would merely stop – and life would be no more. How could that be?   
  
_ Aragorn…  
  
_ She was not sure how she made it out of the cold chamber or though the hallways. Suddenly she was just outside, looking upon a city under siege.  
  
Not from orcs or from wolves. No, few creatures of the land could threaten the White City.  
  
They came from the sky.  
  
She stared up at the great dragon, black and shining, flames reflected in its hide. Arrows sought the beast, and fell off its hide like drops of water. They could not penetrate, and few even found its mark. The dragon moved faster than the wind and many arrows fell crisped to the ground. Blood was on its claws and teeth – her husband's blood. She simply knew it to be so, and cold anger filled her.   
  
The dragon turned its head and looked down at her. She met its glance calmly. Her heart stilled. Her hands fell to her sides. The dragon swept downwards, eyes glittering.  
  
The price of mortality to be paid so soon…  
  
She lifted her voice, challenging the music of Morgoth with a single tone of her own – a dirge for the dead. For the fallen she could see in the grounds below, for the fallen she could feel in her heart. For Aragorn. For her.  
  
And she stood still as the dragon descended upon her, black against her pale light.   
  
They came from the sky.  
  



	13. Dying Living

Until the End of Days  
By Camilla Sandman  
  
Disclaimer: *bows*. The characters, the world of Middle-earth – all Tolkien's. Forgive me, Oh Great One, I am writing for joy, not profit.   
  
Part Thirteen: Dying Living   
  
They walked forever on the burned ground, ashes clinging to their boots and feet as they wandered further into the land, searching for anything that would reveal what happened. Smoke seeped from the ground here and there, almost like tears, the only tears the ground could cry.   
  
Gimli led the pace, Sam following close with Sting held high. Legolas trailed behind, his eyes dark. Little was said. It was a graveyard they were walking through. Words would be intruding.   
  
The Dwarf felt a sting in his heart as he considered how many elves could have fallen. The ashes told nothing of numbers, but he thought he sometimes caught a glimpse blood among the dirt. He dared not look at it, for Legolas might follow his glance. His Elven friend looked paled enough as it was.  
  
Paled skin, burning heart. How frail the Elf looked, and not from some outward cause. The wounds were not visible and no herb could heal them. Perhaps the Lady Galadriel could reach the mind of Legolas and bring him from whatever abyss he was teetering at the edge of… If she indeed still lived and had not fallen into the abyss herself.  
  
Never before had Gimli felt so small. There was naught he could do but watch – watch the destruction, watch the despair, watch his own footsteps, wondering if they would be his last. He did not wish to die here, in the ashes of greatness. He would not fear dying to defend such greatness, but the battle was lost. The world was burned.  
  
Perhaps they all stood at the edge of the abyss, about to fall.  
  
And then he lifted his eyes from the ground to see a light beaconing in the distance. His heart knew that light and for a moment, it felt nothing but joy.   
  
Galadriel.  
  
"Legolas!" he whispered.  
  
The Elf lifted his head also, and a look of wonder fell on his face.   
  
"Elves," he whispered, eyes lighting up.  
  
"Not just any elves" Gimli replied. "Come, Sam. We will once more look upon the beauty of Lady Galadriel."  
  
"Frodo is there," Legolas added, his keen eyes fixed on the distant shimmer of light. "He lives, Sam."  
  
The hobbit smiled, and fiercely brushed off ash from his cheek. Not that it would help much, some had fallen like snow into his hair, some stuck to his clothes like a second layer. Gimli could only imagined he looked much the same. He cared not to look, but he felt ash caress his skin when the winds lifted slightly.   
  
Perhaps this was to be the fate of the world – drowned in flames and swallowed by the sea.   
  
As they drew nearer, Sam was the one who took the lead, the sound of his naked feet against burnt soil leading the Dwarf and the Elf on. Strangely, the sound seemed to echo Gimli's heartbeats, as if they were one and the same. Joy died away and fear grew.  
  
The Dwarf tried to lift his face to look upon the light ahead once more, but tears gathered in his eyes uninvited. He was not sure for whom he cried – Legolas? Sam? Galadriel? The Elves?  
  
His own kindred?  
  
They were dying, he suddenly realised, and his heart contracted painfully. They had for a long time, and he had always known. Like the mountains, the death was slow and gradual, piece by piece, rock by rock. One morning the sun would rise without any dwarves to greet it.  
  
Dying so slowly they believed they still lived. Perhaps a quicker death brought by the Ancient Enemy was a blessing. No slow torment.   
  
Death would come either way, slow or quick.  
  
He felt Legolas's hand on his shoulder, a light touch, almost insubstantial. Perhaps if the Dwarves would become earth, the Elves would become air. It would be fitting, somehow.   
  
A tear fell to the earth, sizzling quietly and burning away. He could not hinder it and scarcely even felt it. His steps seemed to become heavier, as if whatever inflicted Legolas had fallen upon him as well, pulling him to the earth.  
  
When he finally looked up, they were among Elves. Bruised and bloodied Elves, paled yet still magnificent. Wisdom and pride shone in their faces, and Legolas bowed low.   
  
There were Elves unlike Gimli had ever seen, and he too bowed. Elves of power, Elves of old. He dared not lift his face, fore surely he would not be welcome here. Why had he come?  
  
For Legolas. For friendship. For hope.  
  
To his shame, another tear fell from his eyes to the ground, for a moment shining like a dark-blue pearl. Then the earth embraced it, drawing it in, starved for moisture.  
  
Frodo and Sam embraced quietly by his side, no words spoken. Or perhaps he simply did not hear them, for all the Dwarf could hear was the pounding of his own heart.  
  
He would look up and see grief in her face, and he would die.   
  
_ Gimli, Lord among Dwarves, will you not do as you once asked and look upon my face once more?  
  
No, my Lady Galadriel.   
  
What do you fear so to see?  
  
The death of all things beautiful.   
  
_ She offered no answer, but he felt her eyes on his face and his cheeks grew hot. It was as if a sun was upon him, a dying sun about to set. But still a sun, radiant and strong, warming the land, warming him.  
  
There was life here, even as it was dying, clinging on with all its strength. Under the ash, he could see brown earth and patches of green grass. Life.  
  
Perhaps Valinor had not been shielded from the world, but had shielded the world away from it? To heal, to plan some sort of counterattack. Perhaps this was not Morgoth's victory, but the Enemy's failure? Valinor still lived, under ash and darkness. It lived.  
  
"You see far and wise as always, Gimli, son of Glóin," Galadriel said gently, her words stirring something deep in his heart. Pride, perhaps. Or the essence of the rocks and earth from which his kindred had come.  
  
And he lifted his face.  
  
Death was coming. At least he would die living.   
  



	14. The End of Days

Until the End of Days  
By Camilla Sandman  
  
Disclaimer: *bows*. The characters, the world of Middle-earth – all Tolkien's. Forgive me, Oh Great One, I am writing for joy, not profit.   
  
Part Fourteen: The End of Days  
  
The sky had opened.   
  
Legolas stood, though he was not sure why. His heart felt like a hard rock in his chest, unable to do anything but weigh him down. The Elves around him were simply waiting. Doom awaited now.   
  
The sky had opened.   
  
The Valar stood tall, towering above all others. From where they had come, he did not know. Some of them seemed to have come from the stars themselves and simply decended to the earth. Magnificence beyond belief.   
  
The sky had opened.  
  
Morgoth's shadow lingered over Valinor. Legolas could not look at it, so terrible and dark was it even the feel of it made his heart despair. Yet there was a magnificence there as well, a reminder of what had once been. Melkor.  
  
The skies screamed. The fogs departed, and suddenly the dark sea came into view.   
  
"Fool!" Trees blackened and died as the sound washed over the land. "Thou hast shown Valinor to me. I come."  
  
Morgoth. The shadow became substance, the earth opened and flames walked upon the land. The sea rose in reply, Ulmo riding high upon the waves.   
  
Elven bows sang, cold metal shrieked. The flames hissed. And then the mountain screamed and Manwë stepped before them.  
  
Legolas knew in his heart it could be no other. Magnificent, as Morgoth, but not terrible. Starlight and music. The very air sang around Manwë.   
  
The earth shook. Rocks melted and the caves opened.   
  
The Caves of the Forgotten opened and Ar-Pharazon the King and the mortal warriors that had set foot upon the land of Aman stood before the Valar, their faces dark.  
  
For a moment, they merely stood. Morgoth beckoned them, his shadowy form radiating power. But it was to Manwë they turned and bowed, swords lowered.   
  
The flames screamed and charged. The heat licked against the Elves, shadows rose from the earth and fought them. Legolas more felt than saw his enemies, but the blood no one could avoid seeing. It seeped from the ground, as if the earth itself bled.   
  
The stars fell from the sky and Morgoth screamed, blinded as Varda stood before him.   
  
"Thou hast come when thou should not," she said, stars shining around her. The flame of Earendil shone in her face.   
  
Morgoth said nothing, embracing her in darkness. Light and dark fought, Elves and flames fought, earth and blood fought. The sea boiled. Forever lasted the last battle, yet no time at all.   
  
"NAY!" Manwë's voice echoed back and forth, gaining strength, raising the sea and the earth, descending the sky. Light gathered. It became stars, one, two, three stars. No. Not stars.  
  
"The Silmarils!" Legolas gasped. Beside him, Gimli stared in wonder.   
  
Morgoth reached for them, unblinking even as his face burned in pain. For a moment Legolas thought the Dark Lord would reach them. For a moment, even the Silmarils seemed dark and yielding.   
  
But beside Manwë stood Turin and the black sword swung at the shadows. The light of the Silmarils seemed to fuse with the sword and Morgoth screamed. Darkness and light together struck at him, piercing armour and skin and heart.   
  
The sound gathered, becoming more than a scream. It became all the pain in the world and the Valar bowed their heads.   
  
"Fëanor of the Firstborn, take thine creation," Manwë ordered, even his voice barely audible over the sounds of pain. "The bitter choice is upon you now."   
  
Fëanor stepped forward. The shadows became light, became the Silmarils again and fell into his hands. The sound died.   
  
Morgoth was gone. Where he had stood there was nothing. Just the blood of the Earth and all the darkness in the world.  
  
"The world is dying. Firstborn, thou hast loved Arda as guardians. Now thou must love it as life. The end of days has come."  
  
Legolas shivered as the Elves around him seemed to darken. Like them, he knew what was to come. Somehow, he had always known.  
  
"Arda can die and thou will live on, Firstborn. But alone in the darkness. There is no light unless thou relinquish it. Life for life. This is thine choice, as was decided at the beginning of days. To live and live among death, or to die and die among life."   
  
Legolas closed his eyes. Somewhere in his heart he felt his father and mother, both dead. To live among death or die among life.   
  
And Fëanor stepped forward and stood tall against the Valar. His eyes shone as he held out his hands and opened them once more. An offering.   
  
Light came again then, for the Silmarils rested in his grasp. The Valar said nothing as the Elf bowed his head. And as one, all the Elves bowed their heads.   
  
Frodo and Sam clung to each other, and besides them Gimli stood firm, but his face was pale and drained. Legolas tried to smile at him, but found he could not.  
  
The light was overwhelming.   
  
Death to give life.   
  
*****  
  
The world was black and dark, not a wind stirring. The smoke rose slowly, black against black. Those who lived yet would not live long. This was a dead world. This was the end of days.   
  
One last breath, one last farewell…  
  
And then the light came. Not from the sky, but from the ground. So bright none could look at it but all could feel it. The sky thundered and suddenly rain fell. Rain. Life.   
  
The earth gasped and the living opened their eyes to a blue sky. Winds carried the smoke away and whipped the rain into the ground. Life.  
  
None took cover from the rain, but ran into it, mouths open. Tears fell with the rain to the ground, who almost seemed to reach towards it. From the ground sprouted trees and grass again. Life.   
  
Life. New days to come. New lives to come. A new world. And the rain rained on, washing away the old world.   
  
Death.  
  
Life.   
  



	15. Epilogue

Until the End of Days  
By Camilla Sandman  
  
Disclaimer: *bows*. The characters, the world of Middle-earth – all Tolkien's. Forgive me, Oh Great One, I am writing for joy, not profit.   
  
Epilogue  
  
There are tales so important and filled with so many emotions and fates it has no clear beginning or end. The tellers of the tale are forced to make a beginning – and to find an end.   
  
You could end the tale when the world ended, when the Elves gave the greatest gift any can give. It would be a despairing end, for none would know of their sacrifice. Perhaps there is a better end.  
  
For when the Elves gave their immortality to spark life a-new, they became a part of it.  
  
Perhaps some humans would dream of the sea sometimes and feel a strange certainty that there was a lost world out there, sunken in the sea. Lurking beyond the surface of consciousness was the spirit of the Elves, alive in the new life.  
  
And when the life they had sparked died, they went with it. Beyond the veil to whatever waited those who die from this world. Perhaps they were there granted shape once more and reunited with their kindred.   
  
Perhaps too with the other kindred who slowly died out as well – the dwarves, the hobbits, the Ents. Perhaps after rebuilding the earth they faded away like the stars, dwindling as the world became less.   
  
Maybe even the spirit of the Orcs were freed from cruelty and regained some of the shape they had once had.   
  
Perhaps a father met again his child there. Perhaps Elrond saw once more the Evenstar of his people. Perhaps Gimli and Legolas met again there and held each other for an eternity. Some friendships even time cannot diminish.   
  
Perhaps.   
  
And thus the tale would end where it began. Legolas and Gimli. And the echo of the past, lingering in the air until the end of days.   
  
FINI   
  



End file.
